A violent gust of Wyoming wind rushed down the center aisle, extinguishing two candles and lifting the delicate lace veil from Eleanor's shoulders.
Every head turned.
A tall gentleman in an expensive black traveling coat stood in the doorway, holding a leather portfolio against his chest. Two men in dark suits waited behind him, their boots leaving muddy impressions on the church's freshly swept floor.
The stranger looked directly at Eleanor.
"There she is."
His voice carried through the small wooden church.
"The woman who stole confidential documents from a respectable Boston family."
Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face.
Beside her, Silas Boone went completely still.
He was thirty-eight years old, nearly six feet six inches tall, with massive shoulders, thick wavy brown hair, a short rugged beard, and the weathered features of a man who had spent most of his adult life working beneath the unforgiving western sky. He wore a charcoal frontier coat over a brown waistcoat, a cream shirt, and a black neckerchief. A single white flower had been pinned awkwardly to his lapel.
He looked handsome enough to turn heads in any town across the territory.
He also looked dangerous enough that sensible men generally thought twice before provoking him.
And the stranger who had interrupted his wedding was about to discover exactly how little patience Silas Boone possessed for being threatened inside a house of worship.
The pastor, Reverend Nathaniel Price, lowered his Bible.
"Sir, this is a wedding ceremony."
The stranger approached the altar.
"I understand perfectly, Reverend. Unfortunately, the ceremony involves a woman wanted in Massachusetts for the unlawful removal of private documents."
A murmur swept through the congregation.
Several women brought their hands to their mouths.
A ranch hand seated near the back rose halfway from his pew.
Eleanor remained motionless.
Her chestnut-brown hair had been arranged in an elegant braided bridal updo, with loose curls framing her delicate face. She wore an ivory dress with fitted lace sleeves, a modest bodice, and a long veil she had sewn herself during the previous week.
Until the doors opened, she'd been trying to control the nervous joy trembling beneath her ribs.
Now the past she'd traveled nearly two thousand miles to escape was standing twenty feet away.
The stranger smiled.
"Miss Eleanor Whitmore."
Silas turned toward her.
Her eyes met his.
She could see the question.
She could also see something else.
Not immediate suspicion.
Not disgust.
Concern.
The stranger continued.
"Your father has spent considerable time and money locating you."
Eleanor swallowed.
Then lifted her chin.
"My father knows perfectly well why I left."
The man's smile faded.
"Your father is concerned for your welfare."
"Then he might have considered it before attempting to marry me to a monster."
The church fell silent.
The stranger stiffened.
"Young lady, I advise you to be careful."
Silas moved.
Not quickly.
Not violently.
He simply stepped half a pace closer to Eleanor.
But his enormous frame blocked part of the stranger's view, and the movement immediately changed the atmosphere.
"That's enough."
His voice was deep and controlled.
The stranger looked up at him.
"And you would be?"
"Silas Boone."
"Ah."
Recognition flickered.
"The rancher."
Silas said nothing.
The man examined his plain wedding clothes and weathered hands with barely concealed disdain.
"Mr. Boone, I'm Philip Graves, attorney to Mr. Horace Whitmore of Boston."
Silas nodded once.